and skill at the long guns was fabled.
He thumped his gear down on the table, looked around at his new messmates and glowed with happiness.
' T'
In the van of the convoy,
'Where's this'n?' demanded Larcomb, his face animated.
'The Barbadoes, in course!' said Carby, an older hand. 'This 'ere is the first port o' call fer the Caribbean — ev'ry other o' the islands are t' looard. Includin' the Frenchie ones,' he added.
Kydd watched the grey blur on the horizon grow
in definition and broaden, eager white horses hurrying towards the land. 'What's ashore, mate?' he asked Carby. He was unsure quite what to expect; Renzi had elaborated on the strategic importance of the sugar islands, but that didn't seem to square with the hazy tales he had heard of pirates, the Spanish Main and the infamous Port Royal. Especially the pirates — were they still at large?
'Yair, well. Nothin' much, 'ceptin cane-fields and blackamoors,' grunted Carby. 'Yez c'n get a good time at the punch shops, an' the ladies are obligin', I'll grant yer.' His lined eyes crinkled. 'But don' expect ter be steppin' ashore like in Portsmouth town, cully.'
Within the hour Barbados had transformed from an anonymous blue-grey sprawling land to a substantial island, curiously weathered into small ridges and valleys, all looking rather brown. As they rounded the south-west tip, Kydd saw many windmills and tiny huts on the hillsides in a sea of bright green sugar-cane.
One after another the convoy tacked around the point, an endless swarm of sail that filled the sea. As Kydd stood by in the maintop for the evolution of mooring ship, he made sure that Carby was near to give a commentary.
'There, mates, that's the lobsterbacks' barracks, an' up there, big place near th' open bit, you has th' hospital. Yer goes in there wi' the yellow jack 'n' it's a shillin' to a guinea yer comes out feet first.'
Kydd gazed at the detail of the land resolving in front of him. A wide bay was opening up past a large fort on the point, and a small town nestled in the arm of the bay. 'Carlisle Bay an' Bridgetown,' said Carby.
In common with the other vessels, they would not be entering the harbour, their anchor splashed down noisily into the innocent blue-green of the wide bay. As cable was veered Kydd worked at furling the big main course to its yard. This furl would be concluded with a fine harbour stow, and he was in place of honour at the bunt in the middle, not at the yard-arm. It was some satisfaction for Kydd to be recognised as a good seaman. 'A yard-arm furler and bunt reefer' was what a mediocre sailor was called: the best men always went to the outer ends of the yard for deep-sea reefing and the complex centre of the sail for harbour furling.
Kydd on one side and Carby on the other clapped on the bunt jigger, and brought the clews over each side of the mast in a neat 'pig's-ear'. Then they passed plaited bunt gaskets to finish the beautifully even stow. The captain of the maintop let them work on without orders — Kydd's fine seamanship was now instinctive.
Finally at rest, Trajan slowly turned to her anchor to face the warm, gentle breeze, which was all that remained of the ceaseless trade-winds of the open sea they had enjoyed over nearly the whole breadth of the Atlantic. Here, the waves were tiny, only enough to sparkle the sea, but a swell drove in to the beach in huge, indolent waves, a potent memento of a faraway storm.
A lazy heat descended on the motionless vessel. The boats were swayed out from their sea-stowed position on the skid-beams in the waist, and one by one they were placed in the water. An indefinable warm fragrance came on the winds from the shore — dusty earth, unfamiliar vegetation and a tropical sweetness.
